


Twenty-One

by Chryse



Series: What Did You Think About [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:24:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4596276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryse/pseuds/Chryse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What did you think about when you were twenty-one?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-One

John sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache. Had the music been this loud in these places when he was young? Probably. John slumped against the wall and then pulled away with a grimace as his shirt stuck to something,  thinking that he was either too old or too sober for this; possibly both.

Beside him, in contrast, Sherlock was quivering like a pointer who senses a game bird just out of sight. “She should have been here by now,” he muttered. His eyes flicked over the dance floor even faster than the strobe light, which definitely did not help John’s impending headache. “Who in their right mind would choose this music? This is intolerable.”

“Maybe it would be better if we had a drink,” John suggested.

“I don’t need a drink, I need a fix. There’s a dealer right there, obviously well established, good reputation; and a man over there brought extra for his friends so you know it’s good quality—“

“ _No!”_

“Just a bit. It will help me focus.” Sherlock tried to look pleading, which made John laugh right in his face. Sherlock could successfully mimic many normal human expressions, but pleading was not among them: his arctic eyes and ice-sharp features simply refused to melt.

“Absolutely not. Jesus, Sherlock. Tell me what this girl looks like again; she probably came in whilst you were staring at the dealer, you berk.”

Sherlock gave up his tragic-puppy imitation and scowled. “Of course she didn’t. Small, light-brown hair, she’ll be talking to the fence but I haven’t…”

John wasn’t listening; he was just trying to distract Sherlock whilst he tried to locate the dealer himself, having a vague idea of giving the bloke a covert warning to clear out before Sherlock got to him first. What did a dealer look like anyway? It was impossible to tell anything in the stupid lights, everyone moving around and pressed together, how were you supposed to…a memory tickled the back of John’s mind.

John grinned. “Hey,” he said, leaning up to speak directly into Sherlock’s ear. “I never did tell you my grown-up fantasy, did I? The one I had when I was twenty-one.”

 _That_ got Sherlock’s attention away from the dealer. “You said I had to guess,” he said accusingly.

“So guess,” John said cheerfully. The matter hadn’t come up again, although John knew Sherlock hadn’t forgotten it; he’d just dropped it like a penny into some kind of mind palace wishing well, from whence it would eventually come gushing out like a geyser. They had enjoyed a few more sessions with the tights before both tights and Sherlock’s hamstring had fallen victim to an ill-advised jete. That had been the end of the ballet adventures. “I’ll give you a hint. It had to do with a place like this.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust. “Public sex, really? I know you said you hadn’t much imagination but—“

“Nope, not public. Rather the opposite, in fact.”

“In a dance club but not public,” Sherlock said. He was concentrating now, eyes narrowing as though they could bore right into John’s skull. “When you were young but not too young, at university…”

“Old enough to know I liked men,” John said, “but not old enough to have done anything about it yet.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes lit. “Not public sex, _anonymous_ sex. You’d come alone to a place like this, looking for a man to hook up with, a stranger, so if you didn’t like or you liked it too much…”

“Nobody I knew would ever find out,” John finished. He looked out at the dance floor, feeling mingled nostalgia and relief; maybe he didn’t miss being young after all. “I was too chicken to try to pull anyone. What if I got it wrong? I had this fantasy that I’d come here and some guy would spot me and just _know._ He’d buy me a drink, make a move, nothing too out there, be just a bit pushy so that, you know, I could tell myself I was drunk and just going along. He’d know exactly what I wanted.” He laughed a little, remembering, and looked back at Sherlock. “Too bad you weren’t—“

And then he stopped, because Sherlock had vanished.

“Oh, you fucker,” John muttered. He stood on tiptoes, irritably jostling against a pack of young people on their way to the dance floor, trying to spot Sherlock’s tall head or a small woman with light brown hair or a dealer, if he could work out how to tell who he was. Why had he taken his eyes off Sherlock even for an instant? There was a small crowd around the entrance; had he just gone out that way? John pulled out his phone and then put it back: Sherlock would never hear or feel it in this din. _Shit._

A beer suddenly materialized in front of him, a beer clasped in a pale long-fingered hand that caused a Pavlovian jolt in John’s groin before his conscious mind registered the hand as Sherlock’s. “You look thirsty,” a deep voice rumbled in John’s ear.

What the— _oh._ John exhaled and took the glass, letting his fingers brush over Sherlock’s. Not gone after the girl or the drugs: effectively distracted, far more effectively than John had dared hope. He took a few deep breaths, letting his anger and worry dissipate. “Thanks,” he said, taking a long drink. He felt Sherlock’s hand settle lightly on his hip, but he made no move to touch John otherwise.

“See anything you like?”

“Mmm.” John took another drink. Just the taste of it was making him feel pleasantly fizzy, sliding him into that long-ago mindset of flirting and pursuit, although being the pursued had never been his role before. He sipped, smiling a little, making Sherlock wait for his answer. “Maybe.”

“You seem like someone with a feel for the music.” The voice in his ear was pitched to be heard under the noise, so only John could hear it; he could swear he actually felt the vibrations in his toes. “Fancy a dance?’

“Haven’t made up my mind yet.” John took a step back, brushing against Sherlock half a pace behind him. “I haven’t really danced with a man before.”

“I could show you some moves,” Sherlock breathed. “I’m a very good dancer.” He was swaying a little as he said this, rocking John just slightly, but still making no move to pull him closer.

“I bet you are,” John said. He took another drink and stepped back again so that they were pressed together, moving as one. He could feel Sherlock’s hard length pressed against his lower spine and felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the overcrowded club. Maybe he _had_ missed this.They swayed together, not quite dancing, not quite grinding, Sherlock’s fingertips hot against John’s hip, a tingle spreading pleasantly through his lower body. His cock felt thick and heavy.

Sherlock’s lips brushed his ear. “I think we’d be _very_ good together,” he said, and slid his hand around to splay over John’s abdomen. That was—shit, there was no way that should be so hot, not even touching anything erogenous, that big hand spread between John’s chest and cock, pulling John back to grind into Sherlock’s erection, but _fuck,_ John’s knees had gone weak and watery and he was downright throbbing in his pants. If he’d had the necessary coordination John thought he’d have yanked down his jeans and begged Sherlock to fuck him over the bar right in front of the crowd. “I wasn’t sure you would let me lead,” Sherlock murmured, running the tip of his tongue over the edge of John’s ear and John’s knees really would have given out then if Sherlock hadn’t been practically holding him up, “but I think you would, wouldn’t you.”

John’s real first time with a man had been nothing like this—a back bedroom, a skinny kid with a Northern accent almost as nervous as John, both of them so pissed they could barely get their clothes off—but it was unnervingly close to that long-ago fantasy. His mouth went dry and he lifted his hand to take another drink, but saw to his distant surprise the glass was nearly empty. “Since you know the moves, yeah,” he said, pressing his arse back into one last grind before he turned—

\--just in time to see Sherlock’s eyes flare. “There!” he cried, looking over John’s head, and John was left stumbling into empty air as Sherlock darted off after a small woman with light brown hair disappearing out the door.

 

For being so small, the girl was surprisingly quick—especially given her four-inch heels—and the chase took far longer than John expected before Sherlock nipped into an alley, pressed John back against the wall next to the kitchen door of a noisy Thai restaurant, and neatly snagged the girl by the back of her jacket as she darted out.

“ _Arsehole,”_ the girl shouted, struggling to wriggle free of her leather jacket. She resembled nothing so much as a furious cat, hissing and spitting as Sherlock held her up easily with her feet off the pavement.

“Stop that,” Sherlock said irritably as she kicked at him with her spike heels. “John, are you planning to contribute at some point? Get the handcuffs!”

John controlled his laughter long enough to retrieve the handcuffs from Sherlock’s pocket and cuff the girl’s wrists behind her, which left her trapped in the jacket. Then he had the unenviable task of ringing Lestrade.

“Sorry, come again?” Lestrade said in confusion. John could hear his television in the background. “He’s caught who? What case are we talking about?”

“Well, it isn’t a case yet, strictly speaking, there was a private client,” John said.

“You’re a right bastard,” the girl said furiously to Sherlock. “I never even got me drink, and I’d just paid for it. And I’ve had nothing to eat. You know they won’t give me nothing til morning.”

“Ah, bollocks,” Lestrade said. “Is she going to give aggro, or can I just send along a couple of constables to pick her up?”

John looked over at the girl. “If we take you for a bite whilst we wait for the police, will you go along quietly?”

The girl stopped struggling. “And a pint? Yeah, all right.”

“She won’t make trouble,” John said into the phone. “Have them pick her up at…” he looked at Sherlock. “Where’s the nearest pub?”

Sherlock cuffed the girl to his wrist and off they went, looking ridiculous: tall posh Sherlock and his tiny date, who appeared to be wearing more tattoos than actual clothing. John tagged along behind to take pictures on his phone. The police took their time, but John didn’t mind: he had a pint and a snack himself, while the girl (“Taf, not _Tafline_ , fuck!”) wolfed down an impressive amount of food and detailed her crimes to Sherlock, who seemed more impressed than was really appropriate in the circumstances.

“Well, now we’ve had our exercise for the day,” John said, dusting crumbs off his lap as the police escorted their prisoner away. He really hoped they kept a good grip; he didn’t think they appreciated quite how slippery she could be. Sherlock seemed to have the same concern, because he stopped outside the door of the pub to watch narrowly until Taf was safely locked in the car. “Where to now, off home?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder with his brows arched. “I believe you owe me a dance.”

John grinned, feeling a return of his earlier enthusiasm stirring below. “Lead on then.”

Sherlock set off, peering at three different clubs before he finally found one up to his mysterious standards and swept John inside. John had no idea what he had been looking for, unless it was for the most crowded possible venue—the club was packed wall-to-wall, and John had a suspicion Sherlock had bribed the bouncer to bend the fire code. Sherlock didn’t bother trying to fight his way to the bar; he just grabbed John’s wrist and began slithering through the crowd toward the crush of people undulating on the dance floor. John was sweating already, the overactive bass of the sound system throbbing in his ears and his vision half-blinded by the multi-colored flashing lights, before Sherlock decided they’d gone far enough and turned in the narrow space.

John hadn’t danced in ages, but he’d always loved it, and in minutes he had given himself up completely: the music, the motion, Sherlock’s sinewy body pressed against him like a mirror of his own movement. Sherlock’s hand landed on his hip again, firmer this time, and John’s hips flexed almost of their own accord. Sherlock’s hand slid around his waist and pulled him in. Together, apart, together, apart; John felt the percussive beat of the music thudding in his cock and he _wanted._ In the rainbow wash of the strobe Sherlock was ephemeral, flickering, a tease of pressure against his groin and then gone again. John could not hold him.

They kept dancing until John stumbled slightly over someone standing still and realized they’d reached the other side of the room. Sherlock caught his wrist and tugged him down a dimly lit corridor, past the toilets to an unmarked door. He dropped to his knees and said, “Keep an eye out.”

“How do you know—“

“Manager’s gone for the night, obvious, that’s why I picked this one.”

John turned and leaned against the wall as a gaggle of shrieking girls came into the corridor on their way to the ladies’. He tried to look nonchalant, as though he were just waiting on his date, hoping he blocked Sherlock from view. A man stumbled out of the loo and took a step toward John before mumbling, “Shit,” and staggering off toward the bar.

John exhaled in relief and felt a gust of air at his back as the door opened. He turned and grinned. “Well done.”

Sherlock was already on his feet. He stowed his lockpicks and caught John’s arm again, tugging him into the room. John caught a brief glimpse of a desk and filing cabinet before the door swung shut, leaving them in total darkness.  John felt the wall at his back and wondered if there was a light switch. He reached out for Sherlock, but his hand touched only air. “Sherlock—“

In the dark John suddenly felt Sherlock’s fingers at his mouth. “Do you think your friends know you’re here?” His whisper seemed loud in John’s ear. He could still hear the thumping, propulsive beat of the music outside, but the sudden quiet in the tiny office made his ears ring. Sherlock’s fingers just brushed John’s lips, tracing over his face. “Did they see you leave with a man?’

John turned his head, trying to catch Sherlock’s mouth, but Sherlock was having none of it. He moved his face closer to John’s ear. “What would they think if they knew,” he murmured in a low voice. “What if they come back here, looking for you?”

John felt a twist in his abdomen that was half-fear, half-arousal. He tried to turn his face toward Sherlock again, but he couldn’t see him in the darkness. Sherlock’s thumb dragged along his lower lip. “It’s so dark in here. You _could_ pretend. You could tell yourself I was a woman in the dark, but I won’t let you.” He rubbed his cheek along John’s, scraping him with the roughness of his ghostly stubble, and John breathed in his scent: shaving cream, sweat, aftershave, all male. Sherlock loomed over him even in the darkness, pressing him back into the wall without even really touching him. His fingers brushed over John’s mouth in a touch so light it was barely even a tease. “I won’t let you forget.”

John’s mouth was dry. “I won’t forget.” He licked out a little with his tongue, trying to catch Sherlock’s fingers as they glanced along his mouth as though hinting at a kiss. He caught the tip of one and Sherlock stilled, then slipped just the tips of two fingers inside John’s mouth, not enough for John to suck. He tried anyway, and Sherlock pressed the tips to John’s lips. John heard Sherlock’s breath in his ear, the ghost of a touch, but then it was gone. He held his own breath, and felt the barest tickle of lips over his jaw. He could sense Sherlock moving, his forehead touching John’s and then moving away, brushing noses, and always his fingers teasing over John’s mouth.

Abruptly John could no longer bear to wait any longer. He grabbed the back of Sherlock’s head and pulled him down, but Sherlock resisted, keeping his mouth an inch or two from John’s. “Are you sure you want this? _Kissing?_ Bit hard to deny it’s just a drunken bit of fun if you’re kissing.”

“Shut up,” John growled and then Sherlock’s mouth was on his, hot and hard and devouring, tongue invading, conquering, laying John waste.  It was like being knocked down by a wave. All John could do was hold on, tilt his head back, and open his mouth for the taking.

It occurred to him, with another of those tight fear/desire clenches in his gut, that he was never this passive. John was a considerate, gentle lover, attentive to his partner and never forceful unless it was wanted, but he could not think of a time when he was not firmly in control. Even that first time, when he’d no idea what he was doing.  He’d never thought this was something he wanted. But Sherlock had been right: having someone else take control, read his mind and his desire—it had been part of the fantasy, and not the most illicit part at that.

Sherlock’s fingers were hard along his jaw but he was not touching John anywhere else; it was John who was digging his fingers into Sherlock’s scalp, trying to arch up into him using the wall as leverage.  Sherlock broke the kiss and scraped his cheek along John’s again on the way back to his ear. He pulled back a little and John tried to follow as though drawn by a magnet, but Sherlock put his fingertips against John’s shoulder and pushed him back. John felt the brush of a sleeve and realized Sherlock had leaned the other arm on the wall, partially pinning him.

“Just a bit of kissing,” Sherlock breathed into his ear. “Just a lark, maybe a wager lost. You can still explain it away. But if I touch you…” The fingers that had pushed John back ran down his chest, grazing his nipple, stopping short of his trousers. “…if I touch you, there’s no going back. You’ll never be able to call yourself straight again.” His hand barely brushed the straining bulge in John’s jeans and settled at his hip, as lightly as it had earlier that night. “Not once you’ve begged for it. You’ll never _want_ to call yourself straight again. Not after you’ve had me.” His hand—his long, long hand, so much bigger than John’s—spread wide, so that his thumb brushed just to the side of John’s throbbing erection. His breath was hot in John’s ear. “Do you feel how much bigger my hand is than yours? Than a woman’s? Can you imagine what it would feel like wrapped around you?  I know where to touch. I know what to do. A woman can never know, not the way I do. I know how to make you _scream.”_

Jesus. John felt breathless and dizzy, Sherlock’s low promises sucking the air right out of his lungs. His hips thrust up of their own accord, desperate for contact, but Sherlock’s hand kept him firmly against the wall even as his thumb continued its slow tormenting slide. “I want it,” John managed. His voice seemed loud and abrupt after Sherlock’s silken murmur. “I want you to touch me.”

“Do you?” That thumb ran down his whole length, just a millimeter too far to the left, _fuck,_ and back up. “Are you certain? I don’t know. You might change your mind. Run back to your friends as soon as your trousers are opened, pretend it never happened.” Down again. The movement was pressing John’s jeans against his cock in a tantalizing tease that was going to drive him mad—at this point he didn’t care if every troglodyte homophobic he’d ever met saw it on YouTube; he was going to explode if Sherlock didn’t get his hand on his cock.

“You know I want it. You know what I want.”

John felt the curve of Sherlock’s smile against his check. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” John said in a rush. “Please, please, touch me, I need it, I need you, I need you to—“ Sherlock’s deft fingers slipped the button on his jeans and had his zipper down almost before he knew it was happening. “Oh God yes please.”

Sherlock slid his hand inside John’s jeans and cupped the hard length of his erection over the cotton of his pants. “You like my hands, don’t you. I saw you looking. You like my mouth too, but you’re not going to get it. Too easy to pretend in the dark—I could be anybody, down on my knees. But not like this.” He rubbed his cheek against John’s again, reminding John of his size, his strength, his all-male-everything.

“This—this is good,” John panted. Sherlock’s hand was cupping and squeezing lightly and John knew he knew perfectly well it wasn’t enough; he was just trying to drive John even more out of his mind with blind crazy lust. “Your hand—please—“ in desperation he reached down and pulled himself out, seeing Sherlock’s smirk vividly in his mind’s eye but not caring a whit.

“You’ve waited so long for this, haven’t you,” Sherlock murmured. He traced one delicate finger along John’s cock and John thumped his head back against the wall, every nerve in his body straining toward that single tantalizing point. “All those boys you wouldn’t let yourself think about. All those hard bodies you thought about only at night with all the lights out.” Finally, _finally_ he wrapped his hand around John, sliding his foreskin back the rest of the way and rubbing his thumb over the frenulum in a way that made John’s hips buck up of their own volition. “You’ve thought about other things too, haven’t you,” Sherlock breathed directly into John’s ear. “Things you can’t admit even to yourself. You’ve thought about sucking my cock, haven’t you? You’ve thought about _fucking.”_

Sherlock’s usual vocabulary tended toward the clinical and occasionally the endearingly euphemistic, so it always turned John on to hear him swear, but hearing him say _fucking_ now in that voice made John’s guts give another swooping twist. He managed to turn his head and catch Sherlock’s mouth again at last, letting go of the wall long enough to grip the back of his head and press their mouths together hard. “Yeah, I have,” he managed when he came up for air. “Thought about all of it.”

Sherlock was not letting this bit of insubordination go unpunished. He fastened his mouth onto John’s neck and bit, not gently, and at the same time slid the hand inside John’s pants down and back to press at his perineum so that John saw stars. Sherlock’s free hand cupped John’s buttock through the jeans and squeezed. He left go John’s neck to flick his tongue over John’s earlobe and say directly into his ear, “ _Me. Fucking. You.”_ His erection ground into John’s hip.

John’s gut clenched again, but it only heighted his arousal. He hadn’t thought such a thing had any part in his fantasies back then—if that long-ago boy had proposed it, John would have run a mile—but if _this_ had really happened? If this semi-invisible imaginary lover had arrived to take John apart and told him he wanted it? He’d have dropped to his knees and begged for it. His legs spread almost without him realizing. “Yeah,” he said roughly.

John felt Sherlock’s smile against his face again and he could picture it, his wide feral grin, but Sherlock’s hand slithered upward out of his pants and to his face. “I look forward to it,” he said. “Now lick.”

John made the most of it, insinuating his tongue between each finger and sucking Sherlock’s thumb lewdly into his mouth, taking no small satisfaction in the way Sherlock was all but humping his hip by the time he finally pulled away. They were both breathing hard now but there was no hurry in Sherlock’s movement as he reached back down and circled his fist around John’s aching cock, just a hair too tight. “God,” John gasped, and Sherlock slid his clenched grip down to the base and then back up, so slowly, so tight—it should have hurt, it should have been unbearably slow, but Sherlock twisted his wrist at the top and John’s knees wobbled. He scrabbled for Sherlock’s arm in the dark and latched onto his shoulder with one hand, half-propping himself against the wall with the other as Sherlock pumped him mercilessly, a series of quick flutters that made John’s bollocks draw up and then a long, exquisite stroke over the head. Again, again, again. John was light-headed, no longer sure if his eyes were open or closed; there were sparkles around the edges of his vision. Again and again Sherlock brought him to the edge of orgasm and then pulled him back, squeezing and slowing.

John would have begged if he could have formed words. He could feel the beat of the music thudding up through the floor and it seemed in rhythm with his heartbeat, throbbing in his fiber of his body. He’d been at the edge so long it felt painful. Sherlock slowed his hand again, but this time he thumbed over John’s frenulum as he had at the beginning, sending a hot jolt of electricity through John’s groin.  “Fuck,” he gasped. “Do it, do it now, please, _fuck.”_

“Good?” Sherlock asked with a world of self-satisfaction in his voice.

“The best— _fuck!_ ” Sherlock had slid his hand down and back up, twisting, stroking with his thumb, oh God John was either going to come or he was going to die, teetering on the knife edge of oversensitive, but Sherlock kept going, picking up speed and not slowing this time, and John felt the rush of orgasm like an electric shock along every nerve in his lower body. He clenched his teeth against another cry, terrified Sherlock would slow down again, but when the force of it hit him he lost control completely and came shouting like a madman.

Sherlock wrung him dry of every last drop and then lowered John to the floor when his knees gave out.  “God, I’m too old for that,” John finally managed when he had his breath back. “I can’t come that hard, Sherlock. You’ll give me a heart attack.”

“Oh, you were doing fine,” Sherlock said blithely. From the sound of his voice he was leaning against the wall next to John. 

“Hey, come here, let me—“ John said, reaching out blindly, but Sherlock pushed his hands back.

“No, this is a good one, there’s so much yet to do. Tomorrow night we’re going to pretend it’s your first time giving oral sex and I’m going to come _buckets._ ”

Sherlock did this occasionally—he claimed the delay made orgasm more intense--so John let it go, but he felt a twinge of unease. Perhaps it was due to the intensity and one-sidedness of the experience, the disorienting sense of vulnerability; he felt as though Sherlock had opened him up like an interesting corpse and found things John had never known were there. Maybe he was afraid that Sherlock had liked it, liked the upper hand, liked the control better than the pleasure John could give him. And that was something that touched on John’s deepest fear, wasn’t it? The one he never let himself think about, the one he had shoved far down out of sight since their first night together—no, since they first met. Sally Donovan had warned him then: someday Sherlock would get bored.

“So,” John said lightly, suddenly realized he had just been sitting there in silence. “Done that a lot, have you?”

“Hmm?”

“Pulled men in bars. Got them off in dark corners.”

“Oh yeah, loads. That was a long time ago though,” Sherlock added quickly, as though concerned John would disapprove. “You did too, obviously.”

“Yeah, I did, after I got my head out of my arse,” John admitted. “Not like that though, and not the first time. That fantasy stayed a fantasy. My real first time was with a boy younger than me, just come to uni.” His name had been Jamie, John remembered, feeling a wave of affectionate nostalgia; big blue eyes, slender, slight and wispy. “God, we were so nervous. Almost as nervous as my first time with a girl and a lot more drunk.”  Sherlock shifted beside him and John asked, “What about you? What was your first time like?”

“No idea,” Sherlock said dismissively. John heard him stand. “Either I was high or deleted it. Ready?”

“Yeah, okay.” John tried to scramble up but Sherlock caught his hand without the slightest fumbling and pulled him up easily. John wondered if he’d somehow trained himself to see in the dark, or if he just accurately deduced exactly where John would be. “It’s your turn next, you know. I’ve given you two now so you have to tell me one of yours.”

There was the faint click of the doorknob turning. “You still have to guess,” Sherlock said in that silky purr that made John’s exhausted cock twitch in spite of itself, and then the door opened and the music drowned out whatever John was going to say.

**Author's Note:**

> "John And Sherlock Do It In A Club" is a venerable and beloved trope, but I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the influence of NoStraightLine's [ "One Temporary Escape". ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/754136)  
> Along the same lines: I've added this to the notes on "Picnic", but "John And Sherlock Talk Fantasy Gangbang" was done earlier and better by Vulgarweed in [ "Belt-Fed Cock".](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3319031)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Twenty-One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732580) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)




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